


Forget to Frown

by yaakov



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-07-25
Packaged: 2018-12-06 21:45:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11609571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yaakov/pseuds/yaakov
Summary: Ned Stark lifts the siege on Storm’s End and encounters a restless memory from his past, but he also witnesses the start of a hopeful future.





	Forget to Frown

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Plaid_Slytherin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Plaid_Slytherin/gifts).



> Written for Round 15 of got_exchange on LJ, originally under the title "Forgetting to Frown." I decided the gerund sounded clunky.
> 
> My giftee asked for Stannis/Ned, which I was more than happy to oblige. They also requested Robert’s reaction, siege aftermath, and Stannis/Davos, and all that got mixed in here too.

_**After the Siege** _

The vast green standards had begun to dip the moment the stag and direwolf rode within the scouts’ field of vision. From the haste with which they threw down their colors, it appeared even the assailants were relieved for the siege to be done. It had been for more than a year that Tyrell's army had camped outside the impenetrable walls of Storm's End, and their flowers had begun to wilt in the salty, humid air. The men's faces were raw from the fierce, relentless winds, yet each man remained whole and well fed, which was more than could be said for much of Westeros.

"Take all the food we can carry, and have it brought up to the castle," Ned ordered.

The young knight beside him nodded. "I will see that your will is done, my lord."

 _My lord_. The words still felt strange directed at Ned. Lord Stark was his father; Lord Stark should have been Brandon. Ned may have remained just 'Ned' had there never been a war.

Lord Dustin and Martyn Cassel decided to accompany him up to the castle. They chattered on comfortably in Ned's silence.

"Brace yourselves for what we may find," Martyn said. "A siege this long can make any man go mad."

"Frankly, I was surprised to see men _standing_ on the walls," Lord Dustin mused, his red stallion keeping up a pleasant trot. "After all this time, if a man had strength enough to drag himself up there, it's a wonder it wasn't to throw himself off."

"Quiet," Ned snapped. 

The two other men exchanged a glance but said nothing—for about a minute.

"I do desperately wonder how they managed to survive so long. They must have run out of food months ago. How are any of them _standing?_ "

"That's what I mean," said Martyn. "Men will do terrible things to survive."

"Like what, pray?" Lord Dustin urged. "You must have some gruesome idea floating around in that whiskered head of yours."

Martyn opened his mouth to speak, but at the same moment the castle gate creaked open on the stony path.

Ned dismounted, and Cassel and Dustin followed his lead. He led his gray gelding slowly up the incline, and the gate opened further to reveal several figures waiting at the entrance. One man, much taller than the rest, came stomping out in a visible fury.

Ned could not have prepared himself for the sight of Stannis Baratheon when he met Ned and his companions just a stone’s throw away from the castle's entrance. The storm was in his eyes, as it ever was; Ned had never seen Stannis without that relentless gloom, but now the effect was startling. Stannis' dark blue eyes had sunken beneath the cut of his cheekbones, which jutted out above hollow cheeks. The war had been hard on many men, Tyrell's languid roses notwithstanding, but Ned knew this dour young man was among those who had suffered the most.

Ned swallowed. "Stannis.” His voice came out gruff, barely above a whisper.

"Where's Robert?" Stannis demanded.

"Your brother is recovering. He was wounded during the battle on the Trident."

Stannis' eyes narrowed. "Recovering."

Ned nodded. "The wounds were minor. Robert will—"

"—be feasting and swilling wine in two hours' time, no doubt," Stannis concluded. "And yet he sends _you_ to break the siege on our home. I suppose I am expected to be grateful." Stannis bared his teeth in a manner that looked anything _but_ grateful.

From behind him, Ned heard a harrumph of disbelief from Lord Dustin, and Lord Stark rounded on his two men before either one could speak.

"See that the stores are brought up to the castle without incident," Ned told them. "Go find the castellan, or whomever, and make arrangements to account for it all. I must speak to Stannis alone."

Martyn shrugged at Lord Dustin, who lifted his eyes in silent insolence. Ned handed Martyn the reins to his gelding and left the men to their inevitable complaining.

Stannis led Ned around toward a postern gate. "Tell me everything," he commanded as they walked. "The lack of news has been worse on me than the lack of food."

Ned quickened his step to keep up. His mind whirred as he wondered where to start. "There will be time for battle talk later, after we've eaten."

Stannis snorted. "I'm expected to offer you bread and salt, but there hasn't been a moldy crust or a speck of salt in Storm's End for half a year or more. The most I can offer is a bite of rotting onion."

"Onion?" Ned asked. He glanced around at the cliffs and rocky outcrop upon which the stone drum fortress of Storm's End sat. "Where in the seven hells did you dig up onions?"

"They came up from the sea."

Ned eyed him sideways, trying to understand if Stannis Baratheon was making a joke.

"In the belly of a smuggler's ship," Stannis continued. "It's a smuggler named Davos who deserves my thanks, Lord Stark, not you. Had it not been for Davos and his ship full of salted fish and onions, you would have rescued a castle full of dead men."

"I cannot understand this tale, Stannis," Ned admitted with a frown. "A smuggler broke the siege? Why?"

"I understand it little more than you do, Stark." Stannis' heavy brow furrowed under his thick black hair. He had cut his hair quite short, and days of wind and restless nights had flattened the front against his forehead while the rest stood straight and wild in every direction. When the bitter breeze pushed the hair back from Stannis’ brow, Ned noticed how far the line of his hair had receded.

"Where is this smuggler?" Ned asked.

"Under lock and key, as a criminal should be."

"This criminal saved your life." Ned voiced this thought idly, in wonder, but Stannis seemed to take it as a reproach.

"Don't you think I've wrestled with this fact since that smuggler sailed into our midst?" His voice grew louder. Stannis appeared almost flustered. "Who are you to—"

"Stannis." Ned reached for the other man's arm, and at Ned's touch, Stannis' voice cut off as if it had been severed. Both men stopped. Quietened but still smoldering, Stannis met Ned's eyes. "Enough about this smuggler," Ned said. "I need to tell you something."

"What?"

Ned looked at him for a moment—this agitated, troubled young man—and wondered if anything could possibly soothe him. There was something that might have once, but honor now forbade Ned from even trying. _Honor, duty, and family as well_. He thought of Catelyn Tully, wrapped in her cloak and alone in Winterfell. 

Ned let his hand fall, and Stannis' eyes watched it go.

"Robert has declared himself king."

Stannis did not lift his eyes immediately. He clenched his jaw and took a long breath through his nose.

"He slew Prince Rhaegar in the battle on the Trident. And Aerys is dead." Ned did not wish to recount that story just then. "Robert will be our king."

"Robert, king, protector of the realm." Stannis barked a laugh. "And you, lord of Winterfell."

"You yourself may be a lord soon enough," Ned said quietly.

Stannis said nothing, and for a moment, the fury calmed. He turned to look at the castle— _his_ castle—and without a scowl, his face looked young, his eyes large and cautiously hopeful. But all of a sudden he shook his head and set his jaw once more.

"Enough," Stannis said. "Let's go in. There’s much to do. When do you depart?"

"As soon as possible. I will leave Robert's men here at the castle and take only a small party with me. I need to move south quickly. Rhaegar may be dead, but my sister remains in enemy hands.”

Stannis had already begun approaching the postern gate. He lifted a hand, and the guard let them pass with only a curious look. Once inside, Stannis took a torch from one of sconces on the wall and, with a jerk of his head, beckoned Ned to follow. 

“You are welcome to the godswood,” Stannis told him, “though you may find it unkept.”

“All the best godswoods are wild,” Ned said with a smile, which Stannis never turned to see.

“I will not join you,” Stannis said. His voice was as stiff as his shoulders. “I trust you remember where to find it.”

That was a fact which required no reply, so Ned said nothing. His silence was heavy with memory. He had scarcely thought of that evening in the godswood until just moments before—with his father, Brandon, the battles, and Lyanna on his mind—but he suddenly knew, with no proof other than a pull in his gut, that Stannis’ memories had not lain so dormant. 

_Had I truly expected him to forget?_

Ned knew, as surely as he knew his own name, that that would have been impossible.

* * *

__  
  
_**Before the Rebellion** _  
  


Sweat dripped down Ned’s neck and plastered his shirt wetly against his chest. His gelding plodded up the path, its broad neck swaying weakly under the furious southern sun. Ned could not find the heart to spur him.

Robert, meanwhile, had ridden his stallion further up the rise. The horse bucked as Robert flung an arm toward the huge stone fortress hunkering on the sea cliff. The castle wall was sheer and forbidding, just like the rock face anchored in the swirling waters below.

“Impressive, isn’t it, Ned?” he boomed. “Let’s ride down to the shore. Just a league to the north, and we can view the castle from the sea.”

“The horses need water,” Ned shouted back. “We’re here. Let’s go up.”

Robert tossed his head, and a sudden breeze caught his long black hair, flipping it wildly about his head.

“Damn it, Ned!” The violent breeze whipped away the rest of Robert’s words, but Ned knew very well what Robert had said.

“’You’re no fun,’” Ned repeated under his breath. Shaking his head, he climbed down from his tired gelding and led the poor horse the rest of the way.

A chorus of shouts assaulted his ears as he entered the castle yard, and Ned winced. He wondered if House Baratheon would be better served by the words _Ours is the Volume_. The ringing shriek belonged to a boy of about six, who looked like a miniature Robert. The boy had been flung into the air, but Robert caught him easily, joining in with a raucous laugh of his own.

“You see, Stannis?” the boy panted as Robert set him down. “Robert isn’t too old to play with me.”

A young man emerged from the shadows, wearing an irritable scowl. “I thought you found me too boring to be worth your time, Renly.”

Renly shrugged. “You are.”

Robert found this hilarious. “Ha! Stannis, it’s good to see you haven’t changed.” Robert pulled his brother into a mighty one-armed hug, affectionately knocking their heads together. Stannis winced and stiffened, which made Robert laugh even harder.

Stannis had actually changed very much, Ned thought. The long-limbed, skinny boy who had once visited the Eyrie had grown into a tall man, broad of chest and shoulder, with a heavy brow and a strong, jutting jaw. He had not quite reached Robert's height, Ned noted, but Stannis Baratheon would still tower over ordinary men.

Stannis' eyes found Ned's, and his frown deepened.

"Ned Stark," he said flatly, with a perfunctory nod. His stormy eyes did not hold Ned's gaze but moved downward and out, taking in Ned's sweat-soaked shirt and shoulders.

Ned inclined his head. "Stannis."

"Come on, Ned," Robert said. "Let's saddle up some fresh horses and ride down to the shore before sundown."

Little Renly begged to go, but Robert put him off, promising to return and play come-into-my-castle before dinner. Ned highly doubted this promise would be fulfilled, but Renly seemed none the wiser. During this exchange, Stannis had disappeared into the castle without another word.

Robert and Ned spent the first three days at Storm's End riding and hunting; they had planned to spend less than a week there before heading north to the Vale, and Ned was beginning to think he would not get a moment's rest before saddling up for a journey once more.

As for Stannis, he had barely spoken two words to Ned since his arrival. Stannis passed on every venture, even when Robert urged him to come along. He seemed to spend most of his time with the maester and training in the castle yard in the early morning hours. 

One morning, over a quiet but lonely breakfast before Robert managed to stumble out of bed, Ned decided to track Stannis down. Upon inquiry, Maester Cressen directed him to the rookery with a smile.

"He enjoys the birds," the maester said. "We had an old goshawk of which Stannis was very fond, but she passed away several years ago now. Even so, you can still catch him in the rookery on occasion.”

Ned followed the maester's careful directions and found a wide, round room filled with the pleasant clucking of contented birds. There stood Stannis in the gray morning light, extending a hand toward a very focused young hawk. The ends of his thick black hair just brushed the nape of his neck, and for once, his shoulders were relaxed. Ned watched him for a moment in the silent calm.

"Ack! Not so fast," Stannis muttered as the bird thrust its head. After several seconds of useless negotiation, he dropped a handful of corn on the ledge, and the hawk promptly attacked it.

"Damn birds," Stannis grumbled as he turned around. He made a quick movement when he saw Ned standing near the entrance, and for a fraction of a second, his dark-blue eyes went wide. _He isn't frowning for once_ , Ned thought, and this gave him a warm yet very self-conscious feeling; he cleared his throat to cover it.

"Good morning, Stannis," Ned said rather gruffly.

Stannis frowned.

"What are _you_ doing?"

Ned shrugged, folding his arms across his chest as he settled against the wall. "Looking for you."

"Why?" Stannis asked. "What do you want? Where's Robert?"

Ned wasn't sure which question to answer first.

"Robert is still abed," Ned explained, moving into the room to take a closer look at the birds. "The wine was still pouring when I went to sleep yesterday evening." He stopped to examine a large white-and-gray gyrfalcon. "Truth be told, I'd be grateful for a day of rest."

"So, Robert's too drunk to get out of bed, and you wish for me to entertain you."

Ned turned to face Stannis with a sigh. "I wouldn't wish to impose upon you, no. But if you have some quiet diversion planned, I wouldn't mind coming along."

Stannis was quiet for a moment.

"I don't suppose Robert's shown you the godswood."

* * *

The godswood at Storm's End was a wooded grove within a walled enclosure. Several well-pruned maples shaded the bright green lawn. Dark green shrubs, dotted with white flowers, lined a narrow stony path that wound to the center of the garden. There stood a single weirwood. Beside the white-wooded heart tree with its deep, ruby-colored crown, the maples were poor imitations.

“My parents used to like this place,” Stannis muttered, toeing an ivory root with the point of his boot, “though I’ve never seen the appeal.”

“Neither would Robert,” Ned said. He placed a hand against the bark of the weirwood, just below its solemn face. “You aren’t Northmen. Perhaps if you visited the godswood at Winterfell, you might come close to understanding.”

“Hmph,” said Stannis. “Bigger trees won’t inspire me to worship the old gods. When I was an infant, a septon poured seven oils on my head, for all the good that did.”

Ned ran his thumb over a sappy red groove. “I have my doubts about those songs your septons sing, but there’s power in the living weirwood.”

A hand appeared beside his on the tree. Their tannish, peach-colored thumbs were an inch away on the pale white wood. Ned looked up at Stannis, standing beside him and frowning strangely at the tree—either like a man who felt an unexpected sensation or one who had expected to feel something but instead felt nothing. Without warning, Stannis met his eyes, wearing this same conflicted frown.

“If you say so, Stark,” he muttered, looking away. He gave the trunk a careless tap with his fingers before removing his hand.

They did not linger after the moment near the weirwood. The sun had risen high, and Stannis was suddenly cross about postponing his morning training.

“The heat will already be in the air,” Stannis complained as he strode back to the castle. 

Ned quickened his steps to match the other man’s determined pace. “Wait until evening,” he suggested. “I’ll join you if you do.”

“No,” Stannis snapped. “Then Robert will come along, and I hate the way he boasts.”

“Robert takes joy in a good fight,” Ned found himself explaining, "perhaps more than in a victory.”

“Have you ever bested him?” Stannis asked.

Ned shook his head. “Never. But any man who can stand against Robert is a fine warrior.”

“Yet every man who stands against him will lose,” Stannis countered.

“Then we should not resent our losses.”

Stannis looked over at Ned, irritably at first, but soon his scowl fell into a perplexed frown.

"Join me this evening, if you wish," Stannis finally said. "I will not wait for you, but I won't complain if you join me."

Ned smiled—his was a small, close-lipped smile, but Stannis couldn't even manage that. His frown eased as he looked back at Ned, and his mouth twisted in a grumpy imitation of a grin. _A bowstring is not as tense as this man_ , Ned thought, but somehow Stannis' unease and displeasure made his willing company sweeter. He may not have consented to pass an hour in the godswood with anyone else, and this thought and that not-quite-a-grin caused a knot of warmth to twist in Ned's chest. His interactions with Stannis were charged somehow, not easy and brotherly like his time spent with Robert, but certainly not unpleasant.

Ned decided he would like very much to spar with Stannis—provided Robert did not demand his company until the evening hours. Perhaps he would not mind if Ned declined him just that once.

* * *

"Where in the seven hells were you, Ned? The capons are growing cold." Robert tore off a bulk of roast fowl with his teeth, as if his mouth were in a race against the cooling temperature.

"I was in the godswood," Ned answered. He took a seat and reached for the already half-destroyed platter of bird.

Robert spat out piece of bone. "Godswood! I'd show you a real forest, Ned, if only we had the time. We could camp out in the heart of the Rainwood. You'll never see a greener place, especially not in that frozen place you call home."

Ned frowned as he chewed. "Time?"

"Ah.” Robert wiped his hands against the legs of his trousers. "I forgot to tell you, Ned. We're riding out today or tomorrow. Lord Buckler has promised a feast in my honor, so we'll ride up to Bronzegate and then carry on up to the Vale."

"Today?" Ned asked sharply. "That's too soon."

"Come on, Ned! I hate prolonged goodbyes." Robert sighed and cast his eyes around the solar. "It's been great to be back, but if we plan to leave, the sooner the better."

"Let us leave at first light tomorrow, then."

"Fine, fine," Robert conceded, waving a hand. "I'll have a raven sent up to Bronzegate. And in the meantime, we'll just sit around like aged lords with nothing better to do than eat and fart."

"You still owe Renly a game of come-into-my-castle," Ned reminded him.

"Bah! The Others take him. Let's ride down to the coast again this afternoon. I wouldn't mind seeing the sea once more before I go."

"As long as we return before sundown," Ned said.

"Why would we want to do that?"

Ned was silent for a moment, considering. He looked down at his knife and fork as he sliced the fowl. "I promised your brother I'd train with him."

"Oh, Ned, just forget about that," Robert told him, mildly annoyed. "Renly will have forgotten all about it by the time we return. He has a boy's attention, always moving on to the next thing."

"Stannis isn't a boy, and he will remember."

"You agreed to spar with _Stannis?_ " Robert sounded shocked. "You don't want to do that, Ned. You'll be miserable."

"I'm certain it will be fine," Ned answered with a note of steel in his voice.

Robert shook his head. "You don't know Stannis like I do. Sure, he will be angry if you forget, but he will also be cross if you best him. And if he manages to best you, he'll suspect you of letting him win and be cross all the same. Trust me on this one, Ned."

Silently, Ned decided he would not trust Robert's judgement, and he vowed he would return to the castle before evening. But pulling Robert away from his outdoor jaunt proved to be impossible, and by the time Ned decided to ride back without him, the sun had already dipped below the crowns of the pines. Robert bellowed for Ned to wait, and soon he would spur his stallion to the chase, but Ned had gotten enough of a head start to leave his friend behind.

The training yard was empty in the blue twilight when Ned rode in on his lathered gelding. He dismounted in a jump, passing the steed off to a stableboy with barely a word. Stannis would be angry, Ned knew, and that knowledge quickened his step. He had no idea what, if anything, would quiet Stannis’ foul mood, but Ned had never been a man for careful planning. He always trusted, in the moment, he would do the right and honorable thing.

So, he searched the grounds, then the rookery, and listened at the maester's door; he considered finding Stannis' rooms, but he quickly dismissed that notion—it seemed improper somehow. Thus, after exhausting all decent courses of action, Ned gave up and took solace in the godswood.

A wind rustled through the grove, and Ned closed his eyes as the breeze cooled his face. It was a dark night, with heavy clouds obscuring the moon, but Ned found the winding path that led to the heart tree. When he reached the tree, he placed his hand against its pale trunk, feeling distinctly not alone.

The tree was much smaller than the ancient, twisted weirwood in the godswood at Winterfell, but still the bole was wider than the trunks of the leaning maples. Ned dropped his hand, turned, and sat down against the living wood. As he leaned his head against the tree, the breeze dropped, and he heard a faint grating sound and a louder scuff of a boot on grass.

Ned sat up sharply, peering around the trunk, and saw the profile of an angry face outlined in dim moonlight. Stannis' stubborn jaw was clenched, and his heavy brow was furrowed under his thick black hair.

"What the hell do you want, Stark?" Stannis said through gritted teeth.

Ned sighed. "I didn't know you were here."

"Of course you didn't," Stannis snapped.

"I went looking for you."

Stannis was silent for a beat. He turned his face away, and all Ned could see was the quick, deep rise and fall of his chest. Ned shifted around, positioning himself by the other man's side, and Stannis turned to look straight in his face.

"If you had gone looking sooner, you would have found me in the training yard."

"I didn't," Ned said pointedly, "but now I've found you nevertheless."

They were sitting under a tree on a lovely night—alone, tense, and close—and all at once, Ned understood. His realization surfaced in a thought that appeared as quickly as the sudden breeze: _If I were with a lady, this moment would be heavy indeed._ The uncomfortable pleasure would be the same, and the notion that this was improper somehow would hang upon Ned's mind. But Stannis Baratheon was hardly a lady, and nobody's honor was at stake, so Ned lifted his hand to soothe the other man's clenched jaw. Stannis flinched, but he neither moved away nor relaxed. Ned thumbed a straight lock of hair which laid flat against Stannis' ear, and he felt his own face burn. Ned was much too shy and proud for flirtation, but the darkness gave him cover enough, and Stannis' immovable stubbornness pushed him to action. He leaned forward, placed his lips on the other man's mouth, and Stannis remained still.

The kiss was peculiar, not at all like it would have been in a story. Ned was unsure how much to move his lips, especially with Stannis sitting tight-lipped and stiff as stone. After a moment, Ned pulled back, frowning. The intermittent breeze had pushed the clouds off the moon, and in the pale light, Stannis' deep-set eyes were wide and wary.

“What?” Ned asked, his voice barely louder than a grunt.

“Why are you doing this?” Stannis hissed.

Ned made a sound of disbelief. “Why else?”

Stannis grimaced, as if preparing himself to take some unwise risk. “Fine.”

Ned was not expecting Stannis to lunge forward and grasp his shirt, pulling him in for another kiss. Ned would have thought it desperate from anyone else but Stannis; from Stannis, the kiss was tense and impatient. He opened his mouth against Ned’s, crashing into his face and nose yet keeping the kiss dry and separate.

Ned took hold of Stannis' face again, firmly at first, then let his fingers rest against Stannis’ cheek. He slowed their mouths, tonguing the warmth inside, and Stannis, at last, began to relax. Ned leaned forward, guiding Stannis to lie back against a curve of the heart tree’s trunk. He could not have said how Stannis would react to another man pushing him down, but he allowed it—in this situation, at least.

Stannis shifted his position, and Ned found himself with his leg pressed in a very inappropriate place; one of Stannis’ thighs was stuck in a similarly pleasurable spot for Ned. It would have been awkward not to give in to the sensation, even as embarrassed as Ned was, and the pressure soon gave way to slow rubbing. He was encouraged by the stiff swelling he felt against his own thigh, as well as by Stannis’ quickening breath. Ned pushed his hand down below the small of the other man’s back, and he felt Stannis pulse beneath him.

The breeze had returned in doubled force; it was a fierce wind in truth now. It seemed to wrap the young men in cone of privacy, blocking out the world in a whistling rush.

It was not until Robert was yelling ten feet away from them that Ned and Stannis noticed the intrusion.

“Ned! Damn it, where the—"

Ned tried to push himself up at the same time that Stannis tried to kick himself out from under him. It was a clumsy, awful, telling scramble.

“Robert,” Ned panted, finally gaining his feet. He glimpsed Stannis straightening himself out the corner of his eye.

Robert stared. He bared his teeth as if pained, the swift breeze blowing through his careless hair. He squeezed his hands into fists and heaved a mighty sigh.

“Seven hells, Ned.”

Ned saw Robert’s gaze shift onto his brother. Robert blinked stupidly in the moonlight while Stannis stared dark and angrily.

“Go away, Robert,” Stannis said loudly.

Robert looked back at Ned.

“What were you doing?” he rasped.

“What did it look like, Robert?” Ned responded.

Robert shook his head. “Ned—I was looking for you, Ned, to tell you I’m sorry about— _gods_.” He ran a hand through his hair then over his face.

Ned closed his eyes.

“Let me talk to him, Stannis.”

“What?” Stannis’ voice was deflated but sharper than a dagger.

“Let me talk to him,” Ned repeated, his voice rising in irritation. “Give us a minute.”

All was silent and still until Robert spoke again, his battle voice ringing through the godswood.

“Damn you, Stannis, let us speak!”

Ned could feel Stannis’ furious eyes on his back. His neck prickled in discomfort, and he nearly shivered in the draft as Stannis stormed past without a backward glance. The wind had died, and Ned and Robert stood in a darkness more silent than the grave. It occurred to Ned that the godswood had been disgraced that night.

“Let’s get out of here,” Ned demanded.

They stomped up to the lord’s quarters, speaking not a word until the heavy wooden door had shut behind them.

“Tell me I didn’t see that,” Robert muttered, his long legs pacing back and forth across the room.

“I can’t tell you that you didn’t see something, Robert,” Ned growled. “You saw what you saw.”

“I saw you rolling in the grass with my brother,” Robert shouted. “Of all people in the world— _Stannis_. Have you gone mad? There are dozens of boys you could tumble down in the town, if that’s your fancy, but… _Stannis?_ ” Robert stopped pacing, paused, and swung around to stare at Ned. “Is that your fancy, Ned? Gods be good. All this time, all my talk of girls, you’ve been—” He fiercely shook his head. “This is something I can’t understand, Ned. I’ll accept you have different tastes than other men, but I’ll never understand it.”

“Robert,” Ned interrupted. “No. It hasn’t been ‘all this time.’ I don’t have…’ _tastes_.’ I….” He rubbed his forehead. He was at a loss for how to put this—he did not have it completely figured out himself, truth be told—but Ned figured there was never any harm in simply being honest. “I’m fond of your brother Stannis. I’ve grown to like him and enjoy his company.”

Robert stared at Ned as if he had suddenly grown three heads.

“You don’t know Stannis.”

“You keep telling me that, but I don’t think you know him, Robert.” Robert narrowed his eyes, and Ned swallowed before continuing. “Stannis is difficult, yes, but he’s thoughtful.” The word sounded embarrassingly quaint to Ned’s ears, but it was a true word nonetheless. “He’s quiet. He pays attention and remembers. And I think he’s honest, and true, and I value such things.” _And to see his face without a frown is sweeter than to see a smile on any other._

Robert’s expression grew worried, nearly sad. Finally, he pulled out a chair and gestured for Ned to take the one across. Robert collapsed into the seat, his strong limbs falling as heavily as his sigh.

“Let me tell you about Stannis, Ned,” Robert said, sounding almost depressed. “Stannis will make you miserable as surely as the storm will ravage the sea. There’s nothing you can do to make him happy—nothing, Ned—and trying to please him will only make you want to throttle him. And ‘remembers’—ha! Remember he does indeed. He will never forget this, mark my words, and nor will he ever forgive you for whatever slight he imagines you’ve done to him.”

“That much I fear is true,” Ned said, taking a seat, “but besides that, I think you judge your brother harshly, Robert.”

Robert waved a hand. “I’m too tired to argue, Ned. Forgive me for whatever it was I was going to apologize for, and for the Seven’s sake, let's forget about this. Forget about Stannis. We’re leaving at dawn.”

* * *

In the deep-blue darkness just before dawn, Ned went looking for Stannis once more.

Stannis was in the armory, and from the quiet tiredness in his deep-set eyes, he appeared to have just woken up or to have barely slept at all. Ned paused just outside the doorway, spending a moment to admire the lean strength in the other man’s arms as he reached for a heavy training sword. Stannis spun around, and his weary expression sharpened into a sour scowl that pierced Ned’s chest.

“I thought you were leaving.”

“I am,” Ned said, stepping inside, “but I wanted to see you first.”

“For what?” Stannis turned and pulled the sword off the wall.

“Don’t make this difficult,” Ned said with a note of frustration in his voice.

Stannis’ posture seemed to fall with the weight of the sword. Ned heard him sigh.

“You could have left me alone, Ned.”

“Would you have been just as cross with me if I had?” Ned pressed.

“I’m not sure why you care,” Stannis said, turning around with the sword gripped fiercely in his hand. “You were always Robert’s friend—never mine.”

“That’s different,” Ned responded. “Robert is my friend, yes, but you’re—“ He shook his head. Ned was leaving, and his words alone could accomplish nothing. “Goodbye, Stannis.”

* * *

__  
  
_**After the Siege** _  
  


“That smuggler bet on the wrong lordling, eh?” Martyn Cassel chuckled into his umpteenth cup of golden wine.

Lord Dustin shook his head. “I couldn’t imagine locking away a man who’d given me life,” he said sadly, “no matter what his past crimes were.”

Ned kneaded his forehead and took a swallow of wine so quickly he barely tasted it. “Stannis is not one to forgive easily.”

“Ha!” Lord Dustin clucked, raising his eyebrows. “You don’t say.”

Ned set his cup down and focused his tired eyes on Martyn instead. “What all have you learned of this man—this smuggler Davos? Where is he now? Is he in the dungeons?”

“Goodness, no!” Lord Dustin answered as Martyn was busy refilling his own cup. “Even Stannis Baratheon isn’t that unchivalrous.”

“He’s being held in a locked room with guards posted at all times,” Martyn supplied. “Stannis isn’t sure what to do with the poor man. If Robert were here, he’d sort things out.”

Ned stood and drained his cup. “I’m going. Don’t wait for me.”

His men sputtered, but Ned did not respond; he did not want anyone trailing after him. He approached the high table, where the lord’s chair sat empty. Beside it sat Stannis, the aged Maester Cressen, and little Renly, who looked as thin as a street urchin. Stannis was grinding his teeth as he surveyed the merry, crowded hall, and his gaze slid reluctantly onto Ned as he approached.

Ned cleared his throat. “Stannis,” he said, inclining his head. Before Stannis could retort, Ned addressed the older man. “Maester. Can I have a word?”

Maester Cressen tottered out of the hall after Ned. He described in careful detail the path to the smuggler’s room, and as he talked, he glanced back at Stannis, still watching them suspiciously from the hall.

“Stannis has always been fond of you, Lord Stark—you do know that,” the maester said with a question in his voice.

Ned frowned. “I believe any fondness he once felt has soured.” He cleared his throat again, suddenly uncomfortable with this turn of conversation. “I thank you, maester, for your help.” 

Ned took his leave and followed the maester’s instructions to a sizable room on one of the upper floors. There were two guards stationed outside, just as promised. One was biting into an apple and almost choked when he saw Ned approach.

“Good evening, ser,” the other said.

“I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell,” Ned corrected him. 

The man with the apple coughed violently into his sleeve.

“My lord!” he gasped. “Please do not tell Ser Stannis I was—“

“You can’t make demands of a lord!” the other guard hissed.

“I’ve come to see your smuggler,” Ned told them, ignoring their frantic exchange. “Maester Cressen directed me to this room.” After no small amount of handwringing and indecision, the guards allowed him to enter.

The man inside had been eating the dinner which had been brought to him on a small tray. He was staring curiously at the door when it opened, and he stood when Ned walked toward him. He was a small man with a plain, honest face, and under normal circumstances, Ned would have liked him at once. The man smiled beneath his disheveled brown beard and gave a quick half bow.

“Good evening,” he said.

“Are you the smuggler?” Ned asked.

“My name is Davos, and yes, I smuggled the fish and onions through the siege.”

“And before doing this, you made a living as a smuggler,” Ned clarified, a note of irritation creeping into his voice. He had never liked word games.

Davos nodded. “Aye. I won’t deny it.”

Ned nodded in stiff approval. “And what will you do when you leave this place, Davos?”

Davos sighed. “That’s hard to say. M’lord,” he added. “I will return to my wife and sons, but as for how I will provide for them….”

“Stannis may reward you for what you’ve done,” he said to Davos. “You’ve done a generous thing, no doubt expecting some sort of reward, correct?”

“I’d be liar if I said I hadn’t,” Davos answered, “but Stannis won’t discuss it. I think he means to have my hand shortened for my trouble.” 

“He is not a man who forgets or forgives.”

Davos laughed. “That’s what he said, too.”

Ned had to smile. “But he’s a good man—difficult, yes, but honest and true.” He realized he could offer few illustrative examples of Stannis’ goodness, but it was something he knew in his heart. There was truth in Stannis’ eyes—it came along with healthy doses of mistrust and sullenness, but the truth was there nonetheless.

“Aye,” Davos said. “I got that impression as well.” He grew quiet in a telling way then gruffly cleared his throat. “Can I ask you something, Lord Stark?”

“Hm?”

“What would you do in his position? If you’d been under siege, and a smuggler brought you relief—what would you do with him?”

Ned was quiet for a moment. “I would reward him—not in gold but in a position in my household, or perhaps a plot of land for him to farm. If I gave him a bag of gold and sent him on his way, it would be only a matter of time before he returned to smuggling.” He paused. “But there would need to be punishment as well, befitting a thief.”

“So you’d have my hand shortened as well,” Davos said.

“No, I wouldn’t have it shortened. I would do it myself,” Ned clarified. “In the North, the lords have no executioners. We believe he who passes the sentence should swing the sword, and though I’d only take your fingers, I would consider the principle the same. You’ve done a noble deed, Davos. Your punishment should weigh heavily on the one who orders it.”

Davos nodded slowly.

“But men in the south do things differently,” Ned added.

“Yes, but should they?” Davos muttered.

“That isn’t my call,” said Ned abruptly. “I should go now.” Stannis would grind his teeth for sure if he heard the ideas Ned had planted in the smuggler’s mind. “But Davos—“

“Yes?”

“Do not disappoint him. If Stannis grants you more than just a bag of gold, be loyal to him.”

“We’ll see,” said Davos. He looked thoughtful. “I’ve never served another man before, but well, we’ll see, won’t we?” He spoke again as Ned was nearing the door. “It would be good of you to tell Stannis what you’ve told me. You seem to be a just man, Lord Stark.”

Ned sighed. “I will do my best, Davos.”

Ned took his leave of the smuggler, and though he felt tired to the bone, duty compelled him to seek out Stannis one last time. Ned found the other man seated at a table in the lord’s library (the thought of a library belonging to Robert was absurd), fingers steepled as he peered over a large document. He looked up almost at once, and Ned regretted that his look of quiet concentration had been replaced by a frown.

“What do you want?” Stannis said.

“I need to thank you for your generosity. I will depart early tomorrow with my men.”

“Thank you, Lord Stark,” Stannis said, raising a cynical eyebrow. “Now, _Ned_ , what do you want?”

Ned felt a smile pulling at his face, and he watched as Stannis’ frown relaxed. Ned stepped closer, and he saw Stannis had been looking at a map of his own Stormlands.

“Your men called you ‘ser,’” Ned observed. “I did not know you’d been knighted.”

“What of it?” Stannis asked. “Robert said some words after the battles at Summerhall, and he rode off before anyone thought to make me stand all night in a sept.”

“Is that not a requirement?” Ned asked. He still did not understand all the intricacies of knighthood.

Stannis shrugged. “It depends on how devout the fool who knights you is. As for Robert, he might have made me do it as a joke if he hadn’t had better things to do.”

“Robert,” Ned muttered, shaking his head. “But never mind that. I came to tell you I spoke to your smuggler.”

“I know,” Stannis shot back. “And no, I don’t need or want your advice on the situation. I can’t imagine why you went to speak with him at all. You had no place to do so.” He looked back down at the map, his face now troubled, and tapped his fingers on a forested stretch of Cape Wrath.

“I admit I was curious,” said Ned. He did not typically think of himself as a man motivated by curiosity. “A noble smuggler—what a strange thing. And indeed, this Davos seems like an honest man.”

Stannis tapped his foot in a small fit of agitation, still looking down. “Perhaps.”

“I believe he might be loyal to you if given the chance. He seems to like you,” Ned said. It was the truth, but it appeared to inflame Stannis’ nerves. As if to cover this, Stannis sat back, took a deep breath, and fixed Ned with a look of unmistakable annoyance.

“I told you to stay out of this, Stark.”

“Very well,” Ned conceded. “I trust your decision will be just.”

Stannis clenched his jaw. “Is that all?” From his tone, the answer could only be yes.

“I will visit your godswood this evening,” Ned said to Stannis on his way out of the room, “And tomorrow I will depart. I may not have another chance to say farewell.”

“Go on,” Stannis told him, standing and waving a dismissive hand. It seemed, like Robert, Stannis was allergic to goodbyes. “Right now, I must finally deal with my smuggler.”

* * *

The godswood had grown messy and uncontained since Ned last walked its pebbled path. Patches of tall, swaying grass now circled the trees, and the path was blocked with brambles. But the weirwood was as ancient and unchanging as ever, and when Ned approached its pale, knowing presence, he placed his hand against its smooth bark.

_I will not join you._

Ned had half-wished that Stannis would meet him by the weirwood, but Stannis was a man of his word.

He thought a silent prayer for Stannis, that he would not be uncharitable to the honest smuggler, and for Davos to be the sort of steadfast man Stannis needed. He thought of Robert, his friend and now his king, and then of his sister Lyanna. He prayed for speed and for her safety, and though it was difficult to think beyond that, Ned also tried to think of Winterfell and Catelyn Tully. _Catelyn Stark_ , he reminded himself. It was difficult to think of her as his wife, not a woman he had married in his brother’s stead. Her smile had seemed practiced, but perhaps one day Ned would see her smile in truth.

 _And one day soon_ , Ned thought, _let Stannis forget to frown._

A familiar breeze rustled the dark red leaves above, and finally, Ned felt a small sense of peace.


End file.
